


from the tips of your fingers

by warmth



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 05:59:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1677332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warmth/pseuds/warmth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You can’t torture yourself forever, you know that?” He says, soft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	from the tips of your fingers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allyasavedtheday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyasavedtheday/gifts).



> Ciara; I wrote this in your name. I hope it's good as any love letter could be. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](//pillowfortposey.tumblr.com), if it pleases you. <3

Derek has never been able to say no to Stiles, not really. Not in the long run.

(He thinks it’s probably gonna get him killed one of these days.)

-

They break up in May. It’s relatively quiet, a little explosion inside them both, Stiles pushes his shoulder up against Derek’s touch when he passes him in the morning, says, “I can’t keep doing this, Derek.”

There’s a shattered plate on his floor and a blanket on the couch and coffee in the machine, _drip, drip, drip_. There’s the two of them, busted and broken and they’ve been having the same fight all month like a song on repeat.

Derek says, “Alright.”

-

Stiles lost his mother in May. Derek knows that kind of shit. He loves bad 90’s music, organizes his shoes by color, has his mother’s cardigan in the back of his closet for when he’s feeling too lonely, and a bike in the garage that’s too short for his legs. He read the Lord of the Rings series backwards, last book first, taught himself to play the piano, then the guitar, but he can’t sing to save his life. (He still tries.) Stiles likes leaving notes when he doesn’t wanna talk, because he’s better at bullshit when he writes it out.

Derek has a pile of those in his nice shoes, the ones he wore to his next door neighbor’s funeral, a little woman named Dolores. Folded notebook paper, neon post-it’s, “I’m sorry I was late, I’ll make it up to you soon, promise.”

(Yeah, Derek  thinks, he knows that kind of shit.)

-

It’s Fourth of July. Stiles has red frosting on his mouth, half a cupcake in his hand, a bottle of whiskey, it’s slurring at the same angle as Stiles’ words. Derek can’t look at him, can’t look away. Scott is passed out on his couch and the rest of them are milling around, drunk and not, sleepy and not, alone and not.

There are fireworks going off. Allison curls her fingers into Scott’s hair. They reflect in her eyes, red, white, blue. Lydia’s leaning into her shoulder and Derek moves away, closer to the windows. It’s a better sight here anyway and he needs the space. They know he’s that way sometimes. Nobody mentions it.

Stiles is inching forward. He’s not up for talking but it doesn’t seem he’s being given a choice.

“I can’t sleep.” Stiles tells him when he comes into range. His voice is quiet, and surprisingly steady.

Derek eyes him warily. _I can’t sleep either. Not without you._  Instead, he asks, “Now?”

The boy rolls his eyes, takes a sip. “Yes. Now. All the time.”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

“Can’t help it,” Stiles grins. He leans his head against Derek’s shoulder tentatively, or not so tentatively, Derek can’t tell, maybe he’s a little drunk too. “You should know that by now.”

Derek coughs up something like a laugh. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

-

“How do you even keep your body like that, all you eat is shitty food.” Stiles says.

“What the hell,” Derek nearly jumps a foot in the air. Stiles is staring into his cart like it holds all the answers in the world. They don’t talk about last weekend but it’s there, between them, same as their matching dark circles. Derek can still feel the press of Stiles’ lips against his shoulder as they nodded off.

“Why do you have so many boxes of poptarts?” He asks, eyebrows furrowed.

Derek’s voice goes defensive, “I like them.”

They’re quiet for a moment, Stiles’ basket dangling in his fingers, Derek’s knuckles going white around the handle of the cart. He can practically see what Stiles is thinking, _not when we were together, how come you never bought them then_ -

“I better go.” He murmurs. His chest feels like a wildfire and he doesn’t know if he wants it to stay that way.

“Yeah. Sure. See you around, dude.” Stiles waves his hand through the air.

Derek tries not to look back as he pushes past him.  

-

Summer evolves. It’s sticky hot August and they go out to the lake behind Derek’s old house. Derek stares up at the structure, broken wood and burnt furniture, closes his eyes and thinks about the way it was when he was a kid. Tries to draw it from memory in his head, people and all.

Scott cannon balls and Lydia shrieks so loud birds take off. Allison cries laughing. Stiles doesn’t look up from his cell phone.

“Give me that.” Derek says, plucking it from between his fingers. There’s a bead of sweat running down the hollow of his throat. Dark rings beneath his eyes. Stiles shields them from the sun and swipes at him with his free hand.

He snorts. “You weren’t even trying with that one.”

“Give me my phone back, Derek.” Stiles says. He sounds exhausted.

Derek frowns. “Why. You love swimming. Go have fun, jesus christ.”

Stiles just shakes his head and rests his head on his knees. They’re pale, too skinny, he doesn’t know what’s happening, why Stiles is wasting away into a slip. He sits down beside him and pushes the phone into the space between them, it feels like feeding a lion through cage bars.

“You can’t torture yourself forever, you know that?” He says, soft.

Stiles looks at him and laughs.

-

“He’s not gonna tell you,” Scott says as they’re picking up Thai food from the good takeout place on main. “But he can’t sleep because you’re not there.”

Derek swallows. He hands off his credit card. “Dinner’s on me, right?”

Scott shakes his head, mouth curled up. It’s a sad thing. He takes the card out of Derek’s hand and swipes it into the machine, plastic on plastic and then back again.

“What?”

“Nothin’. It’s just -  you’re as bad as he is about this.” He nudges Derek along the shoulder and moves away. Derek thinks he’s lucky, that Scott won’t make him answer. Stiles would’ve. Stiles is blow-your-house-down-if-you-don’t-let-me-in. Stiles is hurricane material.

(Stiles is the real wolf, between the three of them.)

-

Stiles lands himself in the hospital two weeks after. He’s not sleeping, nowhere except behind the wheel apparently, he’s got an IV drip and a broken arm and another bad memory. Derek’s starting to think that Jeep can survive anything.

“My mother went to Columbia,” Derek clears his throat. “Laura thought it would bring us… closer to her, in a way.”

“I get that. I think it’s the reason Stiles is pushing Berkeley.” The sheriff says, running a hand over his head. He looks older than he is, has since he found out. It’s getting better, though, just a little. Signs of recovery.

Derek doesn’t look at him, keeps his voice quiet. He’s got a cup of coffee between his feet and he’s been reading the boy’s AP bio book for the last two hours, the same passage over and over.

“Maybe he just wants to stay close to you.”

His mouth quirks. “Maybe.”

Stiles doesn’t stir.

-

“You need to stop getting hurt. You’re killing me.” Derek breathes. The room is empty except for him and Stiles.

“Sorry. Can’t help it.”

Stiles is watching him, mostly amused.

“You’re up.”

“Been up. You drool when you sleep.” He says.

“We were sleeping in the same bed for eight months.” Derek points out, leaning back in his chair.

Stiles shrugs. “Guess I just never noticed. Was too distracted by all of your - you.”

Derek doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he follows the IV line into Stiles’ arm then out again. His lips are cracked like an eggshell and Derek’s trying to avoid Stiles’ eyes.

(That’s how he always gets suckered in. He’s weak that way.)

“You’re not -  ” Stiles makes a frustrated noise. “You should come up here. If you’re gonna stay. The chair looks uncomfortable.”

He stares at him for a moment, before standing. Derek’s legs creak a little, he turns into a tin toy when he sits too long. Stiles rearranges himself on the bed. He’s got a space for himself, next to him, for the first time in months.

“Yeah, okay.” Derek says, and slides in behind him.

-

There were a lot of reasons they weren’t good together. Derek knows there were. He just can’t - come up with any.

(Stiles wouldn’t do the laundry sometimes and it would pile up until it irritated Derek so much he had to do it. Stiles kissed him sitting on top of the machine and he always forgave him, it wasn’t that big of a deal, it was just laundry. He hated when Derek kicked his feet up on the coffee table, it was his table, he could do what he wanted with it, honestly. But Stiles let it go, usually, unless he wanted to rile Derek up. They liked their eggs a different way. Stiles snored in his sleep. He couldn’t read a map to save his life, they got lost on their way up to Santa Barbara, where the hell are we, Stiles, you always do this -

They were laughing in the backseat and kissing in a gas station and it wasn’t the worst vacation Derek’s ever been on. They flipped a coin on who would drive them back, Derek was tired and called tails, and Stiles turned it over and over again until it was heads before pressing his nose into Derek’s temple.)

-

“I can’t do anything with this.” Stiles says. He brandishes the cast around like a weapon before clunking it on the table. It catches on a fork, goes flying, and nearly pokes a little girl’s eye out. “Oh my god, I’m going to kill someone.”

Derek snorts and moves his hash browns around on his plate. “That was still a high possibility _before_ you got the cast.”

“Shut up, or you’re gonna be first on the list.” Stiles points his new fork at him threateningly.

Derek smirks. “Want me to cut your pancakes for you?”

“You’ve just put a big fat X on your back!”

-

There was a period of awkwardness, after.

“I just - it’s weird,” Scott had said. “You’ve always been so... _together_.”

“Yeah, and now we’re not.” Derek shrugged. “No big deal.”

Stiles nodded along, stealing a sip from his can of Mountain Dew. “Seriously, dude.”

“Are you joking,” Allison asked, leaning into Scott’s side. “Because you’re both acting exactly the same. No one will even know you broke up.”

Derek rolled his eyes, running his thumb over Stiles’ ankle.

“They’re weird.” Lydia said. “And they have the most comfortable relationship in the world. It’s settled. Can we please watch the movie now?"

-

“What are you doin’?” Stiles asks.

He looks tired, he’s got his glasses on, hair standing up every which way, Derek always loved the glasses. They’re reflecting the screen of his laptop. It’s two in the morning. He’s not following doctor’s orders and Derek thinks he knows why.  

“I can’t sleep without you.” Derek says. And it’s not for lack of trying. There’s been a lot of failed attempts between now and the incident at the hospital. He’s exhausted, all corners and no soft.

Stiles looks - relieved. Then worried, like he’s afraid things are gonna veer out of his control again. His lip catches between his teeth. “Yeah. Me too.”

“We don’t have to be - together again.” Derek murmurs. He’s halfway in Stiles’ bed, shoes toed off at the door. “I just want to function like a normal human being when I get up in the morning.”

“You act like a normal human being in the morning? Who’d a thunk it.” Stiles grins. He punches him in the shoulder and pulls the covers up to their necks.

-

“You’re still here.” Stiles says. He scratches his hip, shirt riding up.

Derek raises an eyebrow, pressing the spatula down onto the skillet, liking the way it sizzles. “Did you want me gone?”

“No.” He mumbles, like he doesn’t want to be heard. “I’m - I’m glad you stayed.”

Derek swallows, and flips a pancake onto a stray plate. 

-

Their first fight was in January. Stiles got shot in the side for him and Derek still remembers the blood bubbling out of his mouth like a water fountain. He yelled so loud the people on the other side of the wall slammed their arm against it and Stiles’ hands started to shake.

“You’re an _idiot_ ,” Derek said, limbs twitching, he wanted to reach out so badly, he wanted to still Stiles’ fingers with his own.

Stiles looked up at him, still angry, still trembling, and he moved his hands up over Derek’s arms.

“Don’t be afraid.” He said into Derek’s mouth, and they stopped fighting for a while.

-

“You’re not dating.” Kira says. “But you still… do this.”

They’re on the couch, Stiles’ arms around his waist, up his ribs, back down again. His palm is a massive thing, like a new land, vein rivers, bone sandbars. Derek can feel Stiles’ heartbeat against his ear, a soft, steady sound.

“Don’t drip on my floor.” Derek tells her. It’s raining outside and she never uses an umbrella, he knows that, they go running in the storms sometimes. She set a tree on fire by accident once, the lightning took to her like anything and it burned whatever kept them apart for too long.

“Unbelievable.”

Stiles’ chest shakes against his ear, but he doesn’t say anything. Derek exhales, hands in Stiles’ shirt, and waits.

-

It’s Stiles’ eighteenth birthday. They misspelled his name on the cake so Derek runs his finger through the icing until the y resembles an i.

“What’d you wish for?”

The candles are still wafting smoke into the air. He watches Lydia pluck them out with steady hands, Kira rattling facts off to Scott near the edge of the room. Isaac is idling in a corner, arms crossed.

Stiles makes a face. Says, “It won’t come true if I tell you.”

“Wouldn’t it be more likely to come true,” Derek says, “If two people are wishing for the same thing?”

“Maybe you won’t like what I’m wishing for.”

He makes a soft sound, Stiles’ voice sounds so hurt, so small. Withdrawn. He shrugs, and lets it go. Scott is giving him a weird look, eyebrows furrowed. He turns away, staring at the space between his feet.

“Yeah. Maybe.”  

-

“I need a nap, like, really badly.” Stiles says as he comes through the door. He leaves his shoes at the door. Derek sits up, rubbing his eyes. There are always nightmares when Stiles isn’t beside him.

“Yeah, okay.” He lets himself be pulled along, upstairs, into bed. Stiles drags the thinnest sheet he can find out of the closet and lays it over them both.

He pats the comforter beneath the two of them. “You run too hot for these.”

“Shh.” Derek breathes into his neck, he’s too tired for this, Stiles is warm and soft, his own personal dreamcatcher. He feels like something Derek could hang in his closet, but he knows better, he _knows better_ , this isn’t his first rodeo show.

(He wants Stiles to be something he can keep. And he isn’t.)

-

“You should come get me.” His voice statics in and out, because Derek has had a shitty phone ever since he broke his nice one.

“Where?”

Stiles laughs and Derek thinks it’s the wind that’s carrying his voice away, not just the quality of the call. “Stiles?”

“I carved our initials into a tree that one time. Yeah. That - place.”

They had sex under that tree, your dad could catch us you know, fuck -

Yeah, that’s half the fun, kiss me again, stop thinking about my dad, it’s ruining the mood, I bet this is exactly what he wanted, damnit, don’t give in -

“Okay. I’m coming, don’t go anywhere.”

“Where the hell would I go?”

“You always find somewhere.” Derek says, and grabs his jacket.

-

Stiles is buried in leaves.

“What are you doing?” Derek asks. There’s mud down the front of Stiles’ face, across his cheekbones, his palms are face up, the rest of him in deep underneath a foliage blanket. The neon of his cast, blindingly pink, glows dull against the mush of green.

He looks up, eyes flashing in the dark. Stained glass windows. “I don’t know.”

Derek sighs and sits down beside him. It’s a clear night.  

“I was stupid. I shouldn’t have - ” Stiles shakes his head. “I made a mistake.”

“S’okay.” He says and picks a leaf off Stiles’ stomach.

“Yeah, you’re failwolf extraordinaire, I know you don’t care about me fucking up - ”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

They’re quiet for a while, and Stiles is fighting down a smile, Derek knows that face better than anyone. Stiles is inappropriate and he laughs at all the wrong times and his mouth always shivers, his mouth always gives him away.

“Get some sleep.” He says and rolls his arm over Stiles’ waist. Despite his call, he doesn’t seem ready to leave whatever’s here behind.

Derek doesn’t mind. He can wait.

-

“I miss you.” Stiles says in his sleep. It’s light out, he can hear someone jogging, Stiles is snoring right up against his ear, nosed into his jaw.

Derek brushes the leaves off his body and grabs him up under the arms. It feels like tugging a body out of a grave, and for a moment, he pretends he’s the only one that could bring Stiles back to life.

-

His mother was in love with the moon.

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, half asleep. They’re dead on their feet but there’s something stirring to life in this damn town, there always is, it’s been quiet so long they’ve almost forgotten how to deal with it.

Derek nods, staring up through the trees. They’ve circled the area twice, Stiles has scrapes across the back of his hands, some of them bleeding, some of them not.

“Here.” He says and tosses him a box. Band aids, the spongebob kind. Stiles used to make him buy them, why the hell do you not have a first aid kit, oh right you’re a werewolf, he’s a werewolf, she’s a werewolf, everyone’s a werewolf, because my life is actually _Oprah_ -

(Derek still keeps them in all his jackets.)

Stiles wraps his fingers slowly, cast catching on the inside of his elbow. “Thanks.”

“Whatever.” He murmurs and tugs Stiles’ arm, guiding him away from an anthill. He laughs and shoves him down the hill, back toward the Jeep, and Derek misses him so much he can barely breathe.

-

It’s December and they’re still sharing a bed and he just wants Stiles to be happy.

-

“Merry Christmas.” Stiles says. He’s got his feet pressed up into Derek’s ribs, pushing, pushing, Derek swears he can hear his bones creak. He swats at his ankles and sits up.

“It’s midnight.” Voice flat.

Stiles grins and throws the blanket off them both. “That’s when everyone opens presents!”

“What, on _Mars_?” Derek presses the heel of his palm up against his eye and groans when he hears the door slam downstairs.

“CHRISTMAS.” Stiles yells. He throws open the bedroom door and runs down the stairs with Derek’s blanket clutched around his neck. Scott’s shouting Jingle Bell Rock at the top of his lungs and there’s laughter, something crashes, the power flickers in and out before steadying again, jesus christ.

Derek takes a moment to listen through the layer of wood, lowering himself down onto the floorboards, chest first, then his cheek, temple, everything beneath that.

“Stop being a creeper and get down here, Derek.” Stiles, who knows he’s still tuned into his voice, no matter what.

His smile widens, and he doesn’t go immediately, because they’ll still be there, they’ll wait, Scott will complain it was his fault they couldn’t open presents right away, you’re such an asshole sometimes, man, and Derek would get him in a headlock, Stiles’ll tackle him, they used to kiss when that happened -  

(And at this point, them waiting, it’s the only thing he really knows.)

-

He takes Stiles to the arcade the day after Christmas. Half the town is still boarded up, but Derek knows it’s always open here, flickering lights, welcome-what-can-we-do-for-you.

(If they had made it to their anniversary - this was gonna be the where.)

“Oh my god, this place is magic.” Stiles murmurs and flattens his face against the pacman machine.

“Stop, people are gonna think you’re molesting it.”

Stiles just wiggles his eyebrows and lets Derek tug him along by the hand. They end up with a bag of quarters, fifty bucks worth, Stiles grins when he throws it at him and says, “Be a gentlewolf, would you?”

He follows the bright of his cast through the crowd, a lantern among soft bodies. There’s a couple kissing in one of the racing game chairs and he looks away. There’s a lonely boy, too skinny, too pale, Derek watches Stiles lean over and grin at him, ask him what he’s playing, can he join in. He feels lightheaded.

“Derek! Come play air hockey with me and Jordan!” Stiles throws his broken arm into the air, motioning him over. The kid - Jordan - he’s watching him and he looks scared. Nobody that wasn’t close got it, Stiles-and-Derek. He seemed too rough around the edges for someone like that, someone open, someone that smiled easy and to anyone.

(They were both dark and twisty. Stiles was an avalanche inside, and Derek - he lived up to his reputations.)

“Yeah,” He says, tries to smile. Stiles laughs at him and knocks their shoulders together. “Okay.”

-

They all get him socks for Christmas because they think it’s funny. Derek scowls until Stiles’ hand falls over the back of his neck, squeezing lightly, says, “You’re such an _idiot_.”

 _Don’t be afraid_ , he thinks in Stiles’ voice and his throat is too heavy and Stiles knows what he’s thinking, he’s always known that -

“We got you good stuff too.” He murmurs. Lydia is looking at them strange. “Don’t be afraid.”

-

They leave wrapping paper all over Derek’s floor and Stiles tugs him back upstairs once everyone else has passed out on the carpet, the couches, Isaac on the dining room counter.

“I love your bed.” His voice is muffled in a pillow, he’s wearing the Batman sweater Derek bought him. He wants to press a kiss to the back of his neck, but that’s too deep, they’re just skimming the edges for all they seem like they haven’t changed to everyone else. 

Derek slides in beside him, stomach down. His shirt hitches as he moves, but he doesn’t mind. He’s - comfortable. “You only liked me for my nice things.”

“And your money.” Stiles says. He shifts so Derek can see half his face, a sliver of his smile, the way his eyes blink.

He waves a hand in the air, letting Stiles catch it between his fingers. “Same thing.”

“Sure.” A snort and a flutter of his eyelashes and they’re gone.  

-

February rolls around.

“You got me flowers.” Derek says, staring down at them. They’re wild, blood-colored things, curving out of the bouquet. Pink and white paper, blue ribbon, he wonders where Stiles got these. They look just like him, uncontrollable, a force of nature captured into soft pieces. Individually packaged disasters.

“I got you flowers.” Stiles looks nervous, but proud, too. He lays them down on the counter. “It’s no big deal. Just - we’re both. So, I thought.”

“Alright.” He looks down, mouth curving up. There’s a box of chocolate, Whitman’s, under the sink in Stiles’ name. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Stiles. Let’s go sleep.”

He’ll show them to him later, because now Stiles is nodding like he’s got the best offer in the world standing right in front of him. “Score.”

Derek’s heart beats too fast as they walk up the stairs, but the rest of him is calm. Stiles takes his hand.  

-

“You’re the messiest person ever.” Derek says, putting Stiles’ plate on the bedside table. There’s still a danish crumbling on it, the remains, a dying soldier in a battlefield, Stiles’ mouth is a battlefield -

Stiles isn’t paying attention, no. He’s crouched by Derek’s closet, on his knees. Half his body is shoved through the little space in the doors.

“It opens all the way, you know.”

Stiles says, “It’s easier like this.” And Derek rolls his eyes. Liar.

“I’m not a liar.” He resurfaces with a tin box, there’s a ballet dancer on it, male, Derek knows that fucking box, he throws himself off the bed -

“You cut yourself outta all the pictures.” Stiles filters through them, there’s Derek littered on the bottom of the tin like stray feathers. “Why?”

Derek sits down next to him on the floor. His mother’s face smiles up at him, there’s a bloodstain on the corner, but it’s pristine otherwise. He blinks. Her claws are pushed into a corner, wrapped into Laura’s old necklace and a strip of Ren’s letterman jacket.

“Derek?”

“I don’t know.” He says, flipping one of his bodies over. There’s a shaky edge to this one, where his hands were blurred out. It was a bad night when he took the scissors to it, Stiles is on the other half, grinning, he had his arm around Stiles’ shoulders. This Stiles is frowning. Derek wants to push his lips back into place. “It just felt right.”

-

“Hey.” Derek says.

His shirt is soaked through and he can hear his sister’s voice in his head again, what the hell are you doing, little Hale, that’s not the right way to throw a punch -

Derek just wants to sleep. He’s got most of his body through the window by now. Stiles pauses and turns away from the mirror. His knuckles are snagged in a tie, knotted and looped, a big silk mess hanging from his neck.

“What the hell are you doing?”

There’s a pause, almost awkward, and he steps forward. The material comes away easily enough. Derek always did Stiles’ ties.

“I have a date.” Stiles says, sudden. His face is hot.

Derek swallows, his hands still, then they’re moving again, finishing up. The tie is purple. He recedes. “Okay.”

“I’m - ”

“No,” He shakes his head, and smiles. “I’m not - mad. I’m happy for you. Have fun. Don’t throw up.”

Stiles looks so so so nervous. He punches him in the shoulder. “Help yourself to my bed, though. I won’t be back for a while.”

Derek doesn’t want to think about that. What if it goes well, this date he has, and Derek is sleeping on his bed, Stiles might forget - 

“No, thanks.” He murmurs. Stiles is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Derek’s mouth lifts. “Good luck. It’ll be great.”

-

His name is Clark.

(Stiles comes home with a dreamy expression and they stop sharing a bed after that, it’s one more good nap and then Derek calls it quits. “I can’t keep doing this, Stiles.” And he thinks Stiles is gonna knock his teeth out for using his own words against him. He doesn’t. Instead, he smiles.

Derek thinks that’s a helluva lot worse.)

-

“You’re still in love with him.” Lydia says. Her lipstick is smeared, just a little.

He looks at her, the hard in her eyes, and the sharp, and the pity. “Yeah.”

They’re drinking wine on her balcony, Derek swings his legs over the side, looking down at the drop. He likes that. The fear. It’s high enough to break his ribs. Might even kill him. Probably not.

“It’s a shitty feeling.” She says, leaning her head against his hip. “I know about the sleeping thing.”

Derek nods. “Everybody does.”

“Yeah.” Lydia smiles and raises her glass. “But everybody thought you were forever, and look how well that turned out.”

What a bitch. She’s right, though, and Derek’s always had a soft spot for the brutally honest. He laughs and clinks to that.

-

He hasn’t slept right in two weeks.

-

(Scott hugs him when he sees he walks through the door and Derek lets it happen, it’s alright, it’s Scott, but it feels too much like pity. He pulls away early. Isaac watches him and grins, tips his beer bottle. _Sorry you got your heart broke._ Clark and Stiles are sitting on the couch, his couch, but it’s _Megatron_ \- )

“I’ve got something to do tonight.” Derek says. He drops the pizza box on the counter. Stiles is watching him now, eyes wary, but he’s happy and Derek can’t fuck that up, too. “Gonna head out early.”

“Yeah, okay.” Scott sounds worried. He squeezes his shoulder and locks the door behind him.  

-

He finds a note in his shoe when he comes back from the bar. He’s got five hickeys, only one visible with his clothes on right, it was a good night if a little shady, he came into an empty hand, a bathroom stall, he moaned _Stiles_ and the other guy grinned.

_I’m sorry, if it’s me._

Derek feels like a jackass.

-

They’re happy. Clark is a sweet guy, he cooks breakfast for the pack on weekends, wears glasses and button downs, he’s a lot like Stiles. Dark hair. Darker eyes. Derek can see why Stiles likes him, he doesn’t blame him for it. He gets his cast off in two weeks and everybody remembers to sign just before the deadline -

(Derek draws a wolf right up against the crook of his elbow and Stiles gives him the brightest smile he’s ever gotten in his whole life. He swallows hard, and tries to give some of that back.)

-

He still wants to kiss Stiles, but he’s - getting better. Derek doesn’t tape himself back into the pictures, but he pulls the box out onto his bedside table. Him and Kira run more now, he thinks she’s his favorite. She doesn’t ask him about it, not like the rest of them, Allison hugged him same as Scott when he walked in late to movie night, stinking of alcohol and another man.

“It’s okay.” She’d whispered, and the guilt twisted somewhere in his hands, he buried his face in her neck and breathed until he couldn’t smell himself, the shame on his clothes. Lydia laid his head in her lap and they sat through Stiles and Clark’s commentary on Sharknado. He was a charming thing. Derek shakes that away.

Derek says, “Thanks.”

They’re both breathing hard, Derek feels like he might throw up, but it’s good, it’s challenging, he likes this better, the pushing and the pushing. (He kind of wants to snap.) Kira wipes her hair and sweat back into an elastic band and grins.

“Anytime, bro.”

(Laura would’ve loved her.)

“Race you to your old house!”

(Derek lets her win, always, because it feels better.)

-

They break up in April. They were a month along, six weeks, and Stiles walks inside, calm, without Clark on his arm.

“We’re done.” Stiles announces. “In case anybody was wondering.”

It’s awkward. Derek doesn’t feel anything but empty. He wants Stiles to be happy, without him maybe, hopefully. Wants to see that, much as it hurt him the first time around.

“It’s okay, oh my god,” He says, to the room at large. Derek still feels like it’s aimed at him. “Stop being weird. It’s just a dude.”

Scott leans his nose into Stiles’ temple and Derek - he drags his hand along the back of Stiles’ neck tentatively. Says, “He was a music elitist anyway. You didn’t need that in your life.” and Stiles _laughs_.

-

It’s Fourth of July.

Berkeley gave him a full-ride, he knew early but he forgot to tell anyone he was so excited. People float in and out of his life like buoys, nothing permanent enough for them to get to know. Derek and Stiles don’t try sleeping together again, they like their ends left open, but it’s better when they’re in the same room and they know it.

They gather on the fire escape this time, it’s not quite so hot, Allison gets Scott to heft her up onto his shoulders while they watch the fireworks explode. Kira’s parked next to him on the railing, they’re swinging their legs over the edge.

“You think I could land on my feet?” She asks.

Derek makes a face. “Maybe. Don’t test it.”

Kira snorts and leans into him. “I think Stiles is coming over here.”

“Tradition.” He mumbles and twists his body. Stiles is leaning into a corner, watching them, the wind is in his hair and there’s a bottle in his hand again. Derek nudges his head against Kira’s before he drops back down to the ground.

“I don’t know how to be with anybody but you.” Stiles says, his voice is messed up, shaky as a heart attack.

He doesn’t know how to respond, but Stiles’ lips are wet and warm when his body stumbles into Derek’s. He carries Stiles up the stairs, procrastination, the fireworks are mostly done anyway. It’s cold out here, Derek, my legs hurt, I dun’ wanna walk, it can be like old times, eh -

They lay down together. He pulls the top sheet over their bodies, sticky, too much heat, too much sweat, Stiles has always made him nervous. Stiles has always been unpredictable.  

“You’re not gonna remember this in the morning.” Derek says. He doesn’t know if he’s sad about it or not.

“I never told you what my mistake was.” He murmurs, butting his head into Derek’s neck. “In the woods. May.”

May. His mistake. Derek shushes him, curls him around his back and presses a kiss to his shoulder blade. “We’ll talk about it later. Promise.”

“I miss you,” He shakes his head, eyes clearing. Derek holds them there, rib to rib to rib. “And you’re the only person I wanna sleep next to.”

“Yeah.” Stiles is already asleep. “Alright.”

-

“It was my eighteenth birthday.” Stiles says, in the morning. “I wouldn’t tell you what - you wanted to know, I remember, you said something about the wish having a better chance of coming true if two people were wishing for it.”

“Right.” Derek says. Smiles a little, he does remember, he still wants to know, he wants to know everything when it comes to Stiles.

Stiles is in his boxers and nothing else, middle of the kitchen holding Derek’s shoe-notes, the ones he wrote so long ago. His adam’s apple bobs.

Derek moves closer, mostly disoriented. The notes fall out of Stiles’ hands and onto the floor. His fingers are shaking. Derek breathes in, at his temple, slides his hands up Stiles’ arms, presses his mouth up against Stiles’ mouth.

“I wished for you.” Stiles says.

And Derek smiles. “Don’t be afraid.”


End file.
